She hurried into her bedroom and changed into her uniform, then filled her backpack with a couple of water bottles and a snack.
Dead fish had washed up on South Muiron Island. Whatever had caused this couldn’t be good, and her instincts said it had something to do with the poachers.
She drove to the marina and took the PAWS boat out through the markers. It was a long journey to the island, which gave her far too much thinking time.
What should she do about Sam?
There was mutual attraction there, but was it a conflict of interest? She had to monitor his tour licence.
But the way he understood her reaction to Emelia’s death, and how he empathised with her, was comforting. He made her consider the accident in a new light, one she hadn’t considered before.
She wanted to help him with his team mate. Maybe Amy could give her some insight into what Brandon was like when he got out of the army. They might come up with a solution.
Then there was Penelope’s terrified reaction to him being in danger with the weapons cache. Was it over the top for someone she’d only just met?
It wasn’t something she wanted to consider.
Still Ceiveon’s words stuck in her head. Go for it.
What did that actually look like?
She hadn’t felt this relaxed, this alive since before the accident. She wanted to be the person she was before, the happy, adventurous person, not this person who was too scared of making a mistake to live a full life.
Old Penelope, the person she was when she was single, would have jumped at the chance to spend time with Sam, would have been the one to jump his bones.
She smiled.
Maybe she’d call him when she got back in and invite him to the brewery for pizza.
The idea made butterflies flutter in her stomach, but for the first time in a long time they were nice butterflies.
By the time she reached the islands, the sun had passed its zenith and was heading back to the horizon. She followed the coordinates Karen had sent her and found the fish washed up on the shore of South Muiron Island. The stench turned her stomach and she breathed shallowly through her mouth. Far too many fish for the cause to be natural. She estimated the tides, anchored the boat and then grabbed her things and headed for a closer look.
She took photos and samples of the different species so she could get them tested to find out what killed them. Then she bagged the rest to dispose of back on the mainland. She didn’t want any birds getting sick from eating them.
Penelope checked the time. She’d have to head back soon, but first she wanted to search further along the shore in case there were other areas where dead fish had washed up.
No one had booked to camp on the island this week, so there shouldn’t be anyone she needed to question about the fish, but she’d check the designated camping area while she was here.
She sipped from her bottle and got out the binoculars before lifting her backpack. She’d give herself an hour before she returned to the mainland.
The wind had picked up, blowing a strong westerly which pushed her sideways as she headed north.
Up ahead was a slight rise, which would give her a better view across the island. She reached it, raised and focused the binoculars, and slowly scanned the shoreline. No mass of birds to indicate a feeding frenzy, not much at all in fact. She scanned south of her and still nothing. Good. It might be an anomaly. She’d assess the currents and tides to figure out from where they would have washed up and then investigate when the results came back and she knew what she was looking for.
She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms and then turned inland, scanning the land for any sign something was off.
Smoke.
Just a wisp, almost unnoticeable with the heavy breeze. Camp fire or scrub fire? Either way, it shouldn’t be there. Hopefully she’d have enough water in her bottles to put it out.
She jogged towards it and the smoke increased, the fire probably rekindled by the wind. She ran harder, her backpack bouncing against her back. The islands were a haven for birds and it was nesting season. If the fire got out of control, it would threaten nests.
Breath coming in gasps, she reached the small grass fire. She emptied her water bottle over it, but it did little to douse the flames. She dumped her backpack on the ground and threw sand on the fire to smother it, and then stomped on the smouldering ground, careful not to melt the soles of her shoes.
Finally, she got the blaze under control and a few minutes later it was out.
She wiped the sweat off her forehead and examined the area.
